


With a Fire Red

by toewsyourheart



Series: soulmates [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Coming In Pants, Feels, First Meetings, Fluff, Frottage, Groomsmen AU, Kissing, Love, Lust, M/M, Man of Honor/Best Man, Touching, Weddings, soulbonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's on fire, then it's more than heat that consumes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alotofthingsdifferent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/gifts).



> The [song](https://youtu.be/H_s0qXaoVhQ) from 'How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days' that's referenced here. Good one. Relevant.

The heat catches him out of nowhere.

Patrick was perfectly fine five seconds ago, standing at the back of the event hall, bouquet in hand, waiting anxiously for the bride. Perfectly fine. 

But now, Patrick is burning up.

It started as a slight tingle beneath the skin on his chest and has since spread to his entire torso and down his arms, escalated to a hot flash that won’t end. Just a slow, steady burn that makes him feel flushed, entirely too hot in his tuxedo.

‘What the fuck is wrong with me?’ Patrick wonders frantically, pacing back and forth in front of the double doors, which, he admits, probably isn’t helping. He swallows hard and tugs on his bow tie, trying to relieve some pressure around his throat, feeling stuffy—too tight. Everything feels too tight.

Patrick’s sure they must have turned the air off because there’s absolutely no reason it should feel like a fucking furnace in— 

“Patty, you okay?” a soft, familiar voice calls out from behind, shaking him from his internal string of half-panicked complaints, and Patrick stops pacing and turns to the sound. 

It’s Dayna, of course—Patrick’s best friend and bride-to-be, looking absolutely gorgeous, pack of bridesmaids behind her. 

Patrick grins as brightly as he can. “‘Course I am,” he answers and holds his arms out, watching as she closes the distance between them, long, white train of her wedding dress trailing behind her, giving him concerned eyes the whole way. Patrick can still feel the burn, the tightness in his chest, but his happiness for her is enough to distract him from the fact that he’s practically slow roasting. 

She smiles back warily and ducks in to wrap her arms around him, and though it only makes Patrick feel hotter, he squeezes her as tightly as he can without fucking up her dress and smushing the flowers. 

Patrick lets out a long sigh, face pressed into Dayna’s hair—he really can’t believe she’s getting married. They’ve been friends since elementary school, stuck together all this time, and Patrick loves her, would do anything for her…including be her ‘Man of Honor’ apparently. 

He chuckles, thinking back a couple months ago, to the day she’d called to tell him about the engagement, nervous to ask if he’d stand up with her on the day of, though Patrick doesn’t quite know why. He teased her, of course, but ‘no’ never crossed his mind… 

“Your Maid of Honor, huh?” Patrick had repeated back to her, smiling so big he knew she could detect it in his voice, even through the phone. 

“ _Man_ —Man of Honor, I said,” Dayna groaned. “C’mon, don’t make me beg when I’m pretty sure you’re just gonna—” 

“—say yes?” Patrick interjected. “Obviously I’m saying yes, Dayna. I’d be honored. I’ll be the best Man of Honor you’ve ever had.” 

“The _only_ one, Pat.” 

“You neeever know,” he teased, even though he knew then—just like he knows now—that Dayna and Brent would be together forever—they’re soulmates. 

“I do know!” Dayna answered, voice confident, sure. She’d been searching for her soulmate her entire life, ‘keeping her eyes peeled,’ as she called it. Patrick, on the other hand, still isn’t completely sold on the finality of the whole thing, can’t wrap his mind around how someone could feel so tied to a person they’ve only just met—after a single touch, no less. The proof is in the pudding, though, really. Not everyone finds their soulmate, but if they get so lucky—like Dayna and Brent did—it’s death do they part… 

“I’m happy for you, Dayna, really,” Patrick said sincerely. “ _But_ , in return for my Man of Honor services, I will require that you and hubby-to-be stock a hot bridal party so I’ve got options for after.” 

“Oh, you will, huh?” she huffed out, and Patrick could almost hear her eye roll. He remained quiet, only cleared his throat pointedly, waiting for her compliance—he doesn’t mess around about wedding hookups and she knows it. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

* 

Though Patrick thinks back to that conversation fondly—she’d stuttered out an additional request for him to walk her down the aisle after he told her his terms of service, and he may or may not have cried a little—in this moment, burning up from the inside, the irony of his words smacks him in the face. 

“—stock a _hot_ bridal party…” 

Jesus fuck, Patrick is literally _hot_. 

He sucks in a shaky breath as Dayna pulls away from him. “You look beautiful,” he says and reaches up to tug on his bow tie again to get some relief. 

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she answers, smiling big now—glowing, radiant… 

Just like Patrick is radiating heat, like a goddamn furnace. He must be. How can Dayna not feel it? God, is it getting worse? It must be getting worse, Patrick thinks, heat crawling back to the forefront of his mind. It’s all he can think about, it’s all— 

“Until you screw up your bow tie, that is— _quit_!” Dayna scolds, and he startles when she bats his hand down from up around his neck. Damn, Patrick hadn’t even realized he was still pulling on the thing. 

“Sorry—too tight,” he says and swallows hard. “Did you guys turn the air off?” 

“I don’t think so?” Dayna answers, confused and concerned, as she fixes the mess he’s made. “Really, Pat, are you okay?” 

“’M just fine, promise,” he lies and then wishes like hell for that to be true before their time to walk. Out the corner of his eye, he notices people are going already, only a couple bridesmaids left before their turn, and Patrick tries to will the heat away. 

As they step toward the double doors, _fuck_ —the heat intensifies, and Patrick’s breaths start coming in short. It’s all too tight, too hot. 

He keeps quiet otherwise, aside from the quickness of his breathing, not sure he could really form words if he wanted. Patrick airs his grievances internally because it’s all he can do. 

‘Shit! shit! _shit_!’ he chants, and fuck! Can’t Dayna feel him burning? She’s _right there_ for God’s sake, touching him, arm looped through his, off hand reached up to clutch his bicep. He can feel where each of her fingers is searing into him—right there! 

A gentle elbow to his side diverts his attention. “You ready?” Dayna whispers, smiling up at him. Then she nudges him again, concern returning. There’s no telling what his face looks like right now. “Are you sure you’re okay, Pat?” 

“’M fine,” he mumbles, leaning over to press his lips to her hair and hand over the flowers. Patrick’s not entirely sure how he’s still standing. ‘How the hell are you gonna to do this?’ Patrick screams, but when he moves his lips, only a choked ‘ready,’ comes out, and then the bridal march is playing and they’re walking. 

They’re walking and Patrick does his best to ignore the crowd, keep the grimace off his face and his feet moving, mind a constant stream of heat and ‘please stop! please stop! please stop! please _stop_!’ 

He tries to distract himself, to look up and focus on _anything_ else to get his mind off the heat. God, it’s so hot—‘please stop! please _stop_!’ 

Then someone gasps up front, and though it was pretty muted, the noise cuts through Patrick’s panic. His eyes travel straight to the origin of the sound, to the guy next to Brent—his best man? 

The only thing that registers to Patrick is the tension radiating off him, the fear he sees on the guy’s face. He looks distressed, as distressed as Patrick feels. Then their eyes meet, and— 

—it _stops_.

The heat is just… _gone_ , as quickly as it came, and Patrick’s hit with such breathtaking relief that he has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to keep from crying out—he can _breathe_ again. 

Patrick keeps his feet moving and stares straight ahead, focused on Brent’s best man, who’s looking back at him with dark, beautiful, surprised eyes. 

No, not _just_ Brent’s best man… Patrick’s mouth falls open in astonishment—it’s so obvious now, but he, he can’t _believe_ — 

“My soulmate,” Patrick breathes out, so quietly that only he can hear. It’s his _soulmate_. 

The instant he utters the words, as soon as his mind gets with the program, his chest and arms start tingling again, and Patrick cringes, expecting the burn to return, but it doesn’t. Instead, with each additional step down the aisle, the electricity builds beneath the surface of his skin. It’s not painful, just feels like an adrenaline rush, like an itch that’s drawing him forward, closer to his—to his fucking soulmate. 

Patrick can feel him, standing there, can _feel_ that same energy radiating off him like it’s palpable—like something he can reach out and grab—and Patrick knows it’s their bond fighting to pull them together. His body is screaming at him to get the fuck over there and _touch_ him—to seal it, to make it real, as if it isn’t already, as if he’s got a choice in the matter. God, it’s so real—as real as the burn, as real as the tingle.

Patrick can fucking _feel_ him—right there! 

He and Dayna finally reach the steps at the front, and Patrick spares a split second to consider how lucky he is that Dayna’s been so focused on Brent, on _her_ soulmate, that she hasn’t noticed what the hell’s going on. Or maybe she has noticed, and Patrick just hasn’t because he’s found his _own_ , and he won’t look away from him, can’t look away from him… 

Patrick’s soulmate—god, _how_ did he not catch the name of Brent’s best man?—is still staring at him, eyes intense, lips parted slightly, and Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous. Patrick’s eyes widen when he sees him take a tentative half-step forward, like he’s going to come to him, and God, Patrick wants him to, _needs_ him to. 

Then the music stops and Brent heads down instead to receive his bride, huge grin plastered to his face, and Dayna starts up the steps to meet him halfway, pulling Patrick along. 

The movement startles him because apparently Patrick’s forgotten they’re here for a wedding and have things to do—other than stare at soulmates and seal bonds—now that they’re out here and Brent’s taking Dayna’s hand in in his. 

Patrick figures he can’t be blamed though, because _fuck_ , he feels all over the place, buzzing with so many emotions, nervy and unsettled, yet strangely concentrated—just not on the proceedings of this ceremony. How could he be?—with his skin vibrating like this? 

Thirty seconds ago he was losing his mind, as good as roasting alive. Now, he’s six godforsaken feet away from his soulmate, forced to fight the relentless pull of their bond, absolutely _aching_ to his core to bound up the remaining three steps and touch him. So in the context of the wedding, Patrick may be sidetracked, but he’s never been more focused in his life. 

Under these conditions, it certainly isn’t surprising to Patrick that he completely misses his cue to speak when the minister asks, “Now, who gives this woman away?” and it’s only when his soulmate makes eyes at him, pointedly nods his head toward the thing Patrick’s supposed to be to paying attention to, that he does. 

“Huh?” Patrick says dumbly, shaking back to the moment, and he swears he feels the smirk on his soulmate’s face before he sees it out the corner of his eye. Christ, what was he even supposed to _say_? He can’t remember—such a fucking disaster—so he decides to go with whatever comes out. “Oh, uh…me, her best friend and Man of Honor—me.” 

Patrick takes Dayna’s bouquet, leans in to kiss her cheek and whispers, “love you,” and she smiles softly, not taking her eyes off her future husband, and bumps Patrick affectionately when she whispers it back. 

Dayna goes up with Brent then, and Patrick reluctantly takes his place beside her, like he’s supposed to, instead of going to his soulmate—who’s now roughly ten godforsaken feet from him—like he wants.

Patrick wonders if this has ever happened to anyone else—if another pair of soulmates has had to endure this for so long, has had to resist their bond, doing it’s damnedest to pull them together, because the circumstances are keeping them apart, even while they’re _so fucking close_ to each other.

It’s torture, is what it is. 

In the background, Patrick vaguely registers a bridesmaid singing that song from ‘How to Lose Guy in Ten Days’—the one from the sex scene in the shower, Patrick remembers it clearly—but he can’t focus on the words. All he can hear is the rapid thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears, can only see his soulmate and the distance that separates them. 

Patrick feels his mouth go dry as he stares at him still, and while he’s got a minute, he lets his eyes roam, takes in all of him. 

‘How the fuck’d you get so damn _lucky_?’ Patrick thinks at himself with a smirk, and he literally feels faint when his soulmate smiles back, shy and sweet, cheeks flushing under Patrick’s gaze, and god—he is, without a doubt, the most devastatingly attractive human being Patrick’s ever laid his eyes on. He’s probably biased already, even though they haven’t touched and sealed their bond yet, but man, is he ever hot. 

His hair is a little grown out, dark—like his beautiful, intense eyes—and he’s tall, all broad shoulders and chest. His tuxedo fits him perfectly, like he was fucking _born_ to wear it, clinging in all the right places, tight over the width of his shoulders, his chest, around his biceps and thick thighs. Patrick wants to touch him, wants everything… 

The ceremony progresses at what seems like a snail’s pace, and the pull of the bond and tingle of his skin never cease for a second. 

The minister talks on and on about the strength of soulmates’ connections, about how much they mean, and his words are painful, so hard to stomach when Patrick’s endgame is right there in front of him. Every bond is different, they say, unique to the pair—just like each reaction to the first proximity, like Patrick’s burn, he realizes now—but he’s spent his whole life _hearing_ about them! He wants to feel his _own_ —have it _now_! 

‘ _Please_!’ Patrick sobs silently to himself, starting to feel distressed again, all jittery and bouncy on his feet. ‘Let this end—let me touch him, _please_!’ 

A small whine escapes Patrick’s lips, and he’s met with a soft smile and understanding eyes from his soulmate, who’s starting to look more pained, more desperate by the second, fists clinching and unclenching at his sides. It does help, knowing he’s aching to touch Patrick just as much, and Patrick watches the steady rise and fall of his chest as he drags in slow, careful breaths, and tries to sync his own breathing to match… It soothes him, for a moment.

The next thing he knows, Brent and Dayna are exchanging vows—and oh god, it’s almost time. ‘Almost time, almost time, almost time,’ Patrick thinks, over and over because, even though he didn’t know it before, Patrick’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. 

Doesn’t everyone feel this way, though?—with their soulmate staring them in the face? 

“By the power vested in me by the state of Illinois and, more importantly, by the power of your bond, I now pronounce you, Mr. and Mrs. Brent Seabrook!” the minister proclaims. “You may now kiss your bride, Brent.” 

And he does, and everyone cheers—Patrick cheers, his soulmate cheers—but all that’s running through Patrick’s head is ‘almost time, almost time, almost time.’ His body knows it too, because his skin—Jesus, Patrick thinks he might explode, endless energy buzzing beneath the surface, and he’s _so ready_ to give in to it. 

Brent and Dayna head down the aisle then, and ‘oh god, oh god, oh god—it’s _time._ ’ 

Dayna had told him he’d have to walk out with Brent’s best man, that they could just walk next to each other, but fuck that noise—no goddamned _way_ Patrick’s keeping his hands to himself.

Patrick takes a solid step forward and locks eyes with his soulmate—his future, his _everything,_ he hopes—and watches as he mirrors the action. A slow, easy smile spreads across his face as he closes the distance between them, and absolutely without hesitation, Patrick’s soulmate holds out a hand for him, in front of everyone, just as ready to do this as Patrick is; to seal it right here, right now. 

Patrick’s eyes start to well up, but he doesn’t care—this is happening, he can’t _believe_ this is happening! 

He reaches out and laces their fingers together, squeezes hard, like something’s going to try and rip them apart again, and Patrick _feels_ —feels a warmth so strong bloom from within him, starting at their joined hands, that he can’t speak, can’t utter a single sound. 

He feels _everything_ , his soulmate consuming every single part of him, the electricity surging between them, sealing their bond, the wetness trickling down his cheeks, and he’s overwhelmed but he’s—

—Patrick’s _home_.


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick had been skeptical, perhaps downright cynical, about the soulmate thing his whole life, doubting he had one at all, thinking that finding yours couldn’t be as wonderful and life-altering as everyone said.

Standing here, though, at the front of the event hall with roughly two hundred sets of eyes on him, soulmate’s hand gripped tightly in his—Patrick’s a believer. 

He’s never felt anything like this, nothing even close—like every nerve ending in his whole body is firing simultaneously, thrumming and overwhelmed with warmth that feels like love and safety and comfort, anything and everything good, all at once. 

Patrick is full to bursting, it seems, and through the whirlwind of their sealing bond, of Patrick’s emotions going a mile a minute, he hears his soulmate’s voice—knows it immediately, though he’s never heard it before—loud and clear in his head, just once: 

 _Jonathan Toews._  

Patrick’s eyes go wide, because _holy shit_ , he just heard his voice! Did he hear Patrick’s too?! Holy shit—‘Fucking finally!’ Patrick shouts to himself, so relieved to know his name, mouth gaping open like an idiot as he stares into the eyes of his forever, of his Jonathan. 

“Patrick,” Jonathan breathes out—apparently he’s more in control of his ability to speak—sounding a bit overwhelmed too, wonder and reverence in his shaky voice, and Patrick thinks his name coming from his soulmate’s lips is probably the best thing he’s ever heard. 

Patrick nods his head—‘yes! Patrick, _your_ Patrick!’—but he still can’t find any words, mouth still hanging open. 

Jonathan smiles softly, fondly, eyes crinkling at the edges, and takes the hand not tangled together with Patrick’s and reaches up between them, placing his index finger under Patrick’s chin. He traces his thumb delicately over Patrick’s bottom lip for a second, dark eyes trained on his mouth, and then presses up against Patrick’s chin to close it, a hint of smug to his smile now. Then he takes that same thumb and smooths it across Patrick’s cheeks to wipe away the moisture trickling down his face. 

Patrick’s breath catches in his throat. Having Jonathan’s hands on him feels so fucking good, his thumb leaving a trail of warmth across Patrick’s skin as it moves. God, he never in a million years dreamed it would be like this, that he could feel this way. His touch is so _much_ and not enough, and Patrick doesn’t ever want it to stop, only wants more, more of him and his fingers and soft skin…everything— 

—Patrick wants it all, and his heart flutters in his chest, because he’s going to get it, has got it in his hand right now. He can feel things beginning to settle a bit inside him, the bond solidifying, but the warmth and fullness, his ability to _feel_ Jonathan next to him, doesn’t fade in the slightest, and he knows that it won’t. It’s the two of them, and even now, without having had their first full conversation, Patrick knows it’ll always be this way—he’ll always feel Jonathan. 

Patrick finds his voice then, and blurts out the only solid, coherent thought he can assemble in the midst of his emotional overload, even though it feels insufficient, doesn’t do shit for conveying everything he’s feeling.

“I—I love you,” Patrick whispers, because it’s so fucking true, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he realizes how ridiculous it sounds. They’ve literally _just_ met, in the middle of a goddamned wedding, and here he is, spouting off the ‘L-word’ first thing. Jonathan probably thinks he’s nuts, because hell, Patrick feels like he might be nuts, so he tries to backtrack. “Shit, I mean, hi…? I didn’t mean to, uh—that was weird, right? I’m sorry—” 

“Hey, no,” Jonathan says, cutting him off. He places his hand on the back of Patrick’s neck and gently scratches through the curls at his nape. Then, instead continuing with the ‘wait, yeah, that _was_ pretty weird’ Patrick was expecting, Jonathan gives him that adorable, shy smile and Patrick hopes like hell that it never stops hitting him straight in his gut in the best way, like it just did. “S’not weird. I—I feel it, too. I, uh, me too,” he stutters out. 

Patrick feels his cheeks flush, and he tries not to get too distracted from the moment by Jonathan’s fingers in his hair. “Yeah?” 

“Absolutely,” he answers, and Patrick hits him with what he’s been told is his best smile. “But I think we’re holding up the show here, eh?” 

And holy shit, he’s right; they definitely are. Patrick turns his head to the crowd then, and his slight flush turns into full-blown embarrassment as he takes in everyone staring at them—guests who’ve just served as witnesses to a wedding, and now this… He can even see Dayna and Brent at the end of the aisle hovering in the doorway, trying to figure out where the rest of their bridal party went, Patrick assumes. 

“Then let’s go, _lover_ ,” Patrick jokes, waggling his eyebrows at a chuckling Jonathan, who snorts a little when he laughs, Patrick discovers. 

They head down the aisle together, hand in hand, and Patrick rubs his thumb in gentle circles against Jonathan’s the whole way, and through the bond, he can feel that it’s just as comforting to Jonathan as it is to him.

  

As they near the double doors at the back, Patrick sees Dayna’s mouth hanging wide open—just like his a few seconds ago—eyes darting from Patrick to Jonathan to their hands and back up. Then a knowing, slightly smug grin slowly rises to her cheeks, and Patrick ducks his head sheepishly and peers back up at Jonathan. 

“We’re about to get it,” Patrick mumbles. “Or at least _I_ am.” 

He figures Dayna’s going to be relentless, especially after all the shit Patrick gave her about the soulmate thing… But when he looks at her again, he finds that the smug has quickly ventured into overwhelmed. 

“Patty, you _found_ your—” Dayna exclaims, cutting off the sentence like she can’t say the word. “Jonny—you both… I just—” And then she’s crying, holding her arms out to Patrick, and oh man, that’s not the reaction he was expecting.

He reluctantly— _so_ reluctantly—lets go of Jonathan’s hand just as she’s barreling into him, throwing her arms around his neck, and he hugs her back, squeezes her hard. Jonathan’s hugging Brent too, exchanging congratulations, and Patrick’s pleased when he can still sense Jonathan’s happiness—not specific thoughts or anything, just the flavor of his feelings, sort of—through their bond. He likes it, being able to feel a little of what Jonathan’s feeling, even when they’re not touching. 

“Yeah, I found him,” Patrick says, doing his best to fight back more tears of his own. “Sorry we were holdin’ things up. We just—” And Dayna pulls back to look at him. 

“ _That’s_ what was wrong with you before, huh?” she asks, interrupting his attempts to apologize. “I thought you were going to pass out on me, but it was just… Oh, Patrick, I’m so happy for you!” 

“Thanks, Dayna. I—I’m happy too,” Patrick replies, sneaking a glance at Jonathan over his shoulder. Then he huffs out an incredulous breath at the “happy” because, again, it sounds silly, not good enough to describe it. He reaches forward and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “So _unbelievably_ happy, and I don’t even know anything about him yet, but I—” 

“—but you don’t have to,” Dayna finishes, smiling fondly, new tears trickling down her face as her eyes flick over to Brent. “I get it.” 

“Ah, c’mon, dry it up,” Patrick admonishes, gently wiping the tears off her face. “This is _your_ wedding, and you’ve still gotta take pictures—can’t have you lookin’ all _weepy_.” 

“Hey!” Dayna says, trying to sound offended, and gives him an affectionate shove to the shoulder. 

“Don’t let him hound you, Dayna,” Jonathan says from behind, and Patrick’s semi-embarrassed at the dopey-looking grin he feels on his face upon hearing Jonathan’s voice above a whisper. It’s all velvety and deep, and Patrick’s even hot for the ridiculous Canadian accent, he thinks. 

Then, much to Patrick’s surprise, Jonathan wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him back against his chest, so casually, like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before. Patrick relaxes into him on instinct, feels the warmth settle over him, even as his heart beats a thousand miles an hour at the _newness_ of it all; they’re doing soulmate ‘firsts’ here—first cuddles in public…? Patrick can’t even think straight, sounds like an absolute idiot—such a _sap_ —even to himself right now… _Jesus_. 

“He was gettin’ pretty _weepy_ earlier, too,” Jonathan says, voice teasing and fond, nuzzling into his curls a bit, and Patrick shivers, sucks in a shaky breath because fuck—soulmate ‘firsts’ aside, it’s a _lot_ , feeling Jonathan all over him like this, in front of everyone. God, Patrick’s never wanted someone this much in his life… Keeping things in check at the reception is going to be a real test of his self-control, he thinks, and Jonathan only further validates those thoughts when he brings his other hand to rest on Patrick’s hip, squeezing lightly… 

Handsy, this one. Patrick’s into it, and he gets it. All he wants to do is be with Jonathan right now—touch him, talk to him, get to know him; it’s a real struggle to focus on anything else. But isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? Patrick thinks so… 

He gives Jonathan a playful elbow to the ribs and bats his hand away—too distracting to leave it there like that. 

“Hey, I thought you’re supposed to be on _my_ side, not throwin’ me under the bus—some soulmate you are, huh?” he teases, reaching up to grip Jonathan’s forearm where it’s laid across his chest. 

“I am on your side, bud, but nobody said I had to make it easy,” Jonathan chirps back with a snigger, and it makes Patrick laugh that Jonathan seems to think he’s funny. “This okay?” he adds in a whisper, and Patrick can feel Jonathan’s flash of uncertainty through their bond as he tightens his arm around him slightly, asking if he’s allowed to touch Patrick this way… 

“More than,” Patrick assures him, because Jesus, of _course_ it’s okay, and he doesn’t ever want Jonathan thinking otherwise. 

“You two are almost disgusting,” Brent jokes, slinging an arm around Dayna, and Patrick is pretty much in agreement, honestly. If he were witnessing the two of them as an outsider right now, he might have already vomited. But he’s not, so he doesn’t care, just shrugs in response.

“Yeah, thanks, Seabs,” Jonathan says dryly. “Don’t you have a photographer to track down?”

“No tracking necessary, Jonny boy,” Brent answers. “She’s clearing everyone out now so we can get these pictures done and _I_ can have a beer—and cake.” 

“So _we_ can have a beer,” Dayna corrects. “And cake.”

“I, we—same thing, eh?” Brent says, leaning in to kiss her cheek, and she turns to press their lips together. Patrick diverts his gaze, feels like he’s intruding on a private “married soulmates” moment, though it gets interrupted anyway when the photographer emerges through the double doors seconds later with an announcement that it’s “photo time.” 

Patrick releases his grip on Jonathan’s arm and he lets go so they can head back up to the front for pictures, and he immediately misses the warmth at his back. 

Throughout the shoot, Patrick does his best to focus on the camera, on what he’s supposed to be doing, instead of on Jonathan, his stupidly adorable smile, and the fact that their ‘ _I’_ s’ have also just become a ‘ _we_.’


	3. Chapter 3

After smiling for what seems like fifty-plus pictures, the bridal party is dismissed to the reception area while Brent and Dayna take solos. Patrick does an internal backflip and looks straight to Jonathan, heart beating fast with excitement and anticipation. They’re _finally_ going to get some time to speak to each other now. 

Jonathan grabs his hand quickly, lacing their fingers together again, and pulls him along—no nonsense, no time for small talk. Patrick smirks at his hastiness, glad he’s not the only one feeling impatient to be alone here—well, as alone as they can manage at a wedding party.

They step into the reception hall, and Jonathan weaves them through the other guests, making an immediate beeline for their table. Patrick giggles when they get there, rolling his eyes at the place card reading ‘Man of Honor’ at the seat to the right of Dayna’s. She _would_ … 

Patrick sits, and Jonathan plops down next to him, though the cards clearly indicate he’s supposed to be sitting to Brent’s left, a couple chairs down. 

“Don’t think that’s your spot,” Patrick jokes, already turning in his chair to face him. He idly registers people around them—dancing to the music, getting drinks at the bar while they wait for the old marrieds—but they’re easy to ignore. 

“Oh, _I’m_ sorry,” Jonathan replies, shifting like he’s going to stand. “Would you like to me to move, Patrick?” 

“No, _Jonathan_ ,” he says quickly, grabbing one of Jonathan’s hands in both of this, and he’s rewarded with a smirk. “I don’t think I’d care for that.” 

“Me either,” Jonathan says and turns in his chair too, slotting their knees together, thighs bumping; soft, fond eyes on Patrick’s the whole time. He feels his cheeks flush, bashful and fidgety under Jonathan’s gaze. Nobody’s ever looked at him this way before, like he’s the best thing they’ve ever seen. 

Patrick’s never been anyone’s best thing before… 

“Do you prefer that?” Patrick asks, leaning in closer, going with something easy to start. He’s feeling oddly nervous all of a sudden. They’re soulmates, yeah, but it’s all so new, and he—he just wants Jonathan to _like_ him, wants this to work… “Or Jonny? Or Jon?” 

“You can call me whatever you want,” Jonathan answers, giving Patrick’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Patrick draws in a slow breath, feels the warmth settle over him, and tries to get ahold of himself. This is his Jonathan—he’s got no reason to be nervous. “But people usually go with Jonny.” 

Patrick makes an effort to look like he’s seriously considering. “Maybe I’ll save ‘Jonathan’ for when we fight?” he suggests, nudging him with his knee, and Jonathan chuckles, throwing his head back a little, mouth open, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Patrick practically swoons…He’s so beautiful. 

“Here we just met, and you’re already planning our first fight, eh?” Jonathan says, raising an eyebrow. 

“Not planning the fight, just planning what to call you _when_ we fight—big difference,” he clarifies.

“Right,” Jonathan deadpans. “Huuuge difference.” 

Patrick grins and swats his thigh playfully, and in a moment of boldness, leaves his hand there. He rubs up and down slowly, applying enough pressure that he can easily feel the contours of Jonathan’s muscles beneath the fabric of his pants. Patrick bites his lip—god, he’s fairly sure Jonathan’s fucking ripped and one hundred percent sure he can’t wait to find out for certain. 

Patrick sees Jonathan’s eyes drop down to his mouth and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows hard, the air between them feeling more charged by the second. Then he reaches up to tug Patrick’s lip from between his teeth with his thumb. “Quit distracting me.” 

“From?” Patrick inquires, only slightly embarrassed by how breathy his voice sounds, and gives Jonathan’s thigh another squeeze before just letting his hand rest there.

“Asking you things,” Jonathan says, corner of his mouth turning up in a small smile, cheeks flushing a shade of red that makes Patrick wants to run his fingers over them. 

“What things?” Patrick’s got _things_ too—just short of a thousand questions he wants to ask Jonathan. It’s kind of strange, having feelings this _solid_ for someone you don’t know anything about, and he’s dying to fill in the gaps, get to know him. 

“Like where you’re from? What you do…?” Jonathan trails off. The basics. 

“I’m from Buffalo. S’where Dayna and I grew up, and uh, I’m head of stats and analytics for the Sabres—” 

“You like hockey?” Jonathan interrupts, perking up, and his excitement gets Patrick excited. 

“ _Love_ hockey. The only way my job could be better is if I were actually playing,” Patrick answers. “I love the numbers, though.” 

“But, you know, they’re _just_ numbers,” Jonathan remarks, like he’s commenting on the weather and not undermining Patrick’s fucking profession and life’s work. 

“Oh, is that right?” Patrick scoffs, brow furrowing. _Obviously_ Jonathan just doesn’t know any better. 

“That’s exactly right. Players should be worried about playing, not their damn Corsi numbers, or whatever,” Jonathan says with a dismissive—dismissive!—hand wave. “You can’t measure overall talent with numbers.” 

“Not _just_ numbers, Jonathan!” Patrick says, throwing his hands in the air, and Jonathan starts smiling at him all stupid, which only gets him more animated. This isn’t a joke. “There are trends, _significant_ trends, and—” 

“You called me Jonathan,” he points out, interrupting the beginning of Patrick’s rant, still smiling brightly. “Are we fighting already?” 

“Maybe we are!” Patrick exclaims, huffing out a breath, and he can’t stop the laugh that slips out too, not with Jonathan looking at him that way—all charming and innocent. Goddamn… 

“Well you’ve got plenty of time to try and convince me that your little trends are—” 

“Oh my god—they _are_ useful!” Patrick says, already fully aware of where Jonathan was going with that, and pinches his thigh. “Do not even—” 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Jonathan says, holding up his hands in surrender. Then he reaches forward and places his hand on the back of Patrick’s neck, fingers going straight for his curls again. “Gettin’ all fired up on me here.” 

“You started it,” Patrick says petulantly, and Jonathan just continues to scratch his nails through Patrick’s hair, soothingly against his scalp, back and forth, tugging on his curls—and fuck if it’s not the _best_ thing.

Patrick can feel his touch _everywhere_ , like a warm tingle beneath his skin that makes it hard to concentrate on anything else. He closes his eyes, lets out a small noise of contentment, and leans back into his hand.

“Now who’s being distracting?” Patrick asks, and opens his eyes, meeting another intense stare—he suspects those are Jonathan’s specialty—that sends a shiver down his spine. He clears his throat, tries to focus. It’s easier once Jonathan drops his hand back to their laps. “Your turn to tell me things.” 

“Well, I’m from Winnipeg, and I teach,” Jonathan says simply.

“Teach what?” Patrick presses. 

“Just started my first year at the University of Manitoba—Associate Professor of History,” he answers, and Patrick can tell just from the lift in his voice how much he loves it.

Despite that, though, Patrick’s heart sinks a little and he drops his eyes, unable to stop the worry that quickly consumes him. What the fuck are they going to do? Their lives are like, fifteen hundred miles away from each other… 

“Hey, c’mon,” Jonathan says, aware of Patrick’s worrying before he’s even voiced it. He gently cups Patrick’s face in his hand, and Patrick can feel him trying to send calm and comfort through their bond. He rubs his thumb softly against Patrick’s cheek, and it helps—it does. “We’ll figure it out, Pat. Let’s just be happy that we—that we found each other for now, okay?” 

“I think I can handle that,” Patrick says, offering him a small grin, and reaches up to hold Jonathan’s wrist. Then, because he can’t help himself, he turns his face slightly into Jonathan’s palm and presses his lips there softly, murmurs against his warm skin, “ _So_ happy I found you.”

“If I hadn’t had to teach a class and miss the rehearsal dinner yesterday, we could have done this then,” Jonathan points out, and Patrick gives him a look. Because damn, that would have been nice—if he could have avoided feeling like he was going to burn alive during Dayna’s _wedding_ , which reminds him…

“Oh, yeah, hey—your thing! What was it?” Patrick asks. 

“My thing?” Jonathan counters, confused. Patrick probably could have been more specific. 

“Yeah, your thing, you know? I felt like I was on fire, man. It was awful… But then I looked at you, and it just—stopped,” Patrick answers with a shrug. “What was yours?” 

“Oh, uh—I,” Jonathan stutters. “I was—having a panic attack, I guess? Like I was paralyzed or something. Thank God I didn’t have to walk anywhere. I just felt…scared? I don’t know. I hated it.” 

Patrick can feel Jonathan getting nervous thinking about it, like he’s having flashbacks or something…He doesn’t care for it. “Sorry it was bad for you, Jonny,” he says, running his palm along Jonathan’s thigh again, trying to soothe him. “Weird how that shit works.” 

“Yeah, you’d think it’d be more pleasant, considering how—what it feels like after,” Jonathan says, smiling softly, and Patrick feels him remembering that too—warmth, love, comfort…all of it. Much better. “But I’d do it again.” 

“In a fuckin’ heartbeat,” Patrick adds. He’d take that heat a thousand times over, if he got Jonathan at the end of it each time. No question. 

Jonathan leans in slowly, air thick, electric between them, and Patrick’s sure they’re about to cross another soulmate first off the list—that Jonathan’s going to kiss him, that he’s finally going to feel Jonathan’s mouth on his, when the old marrieds burst through the goddamn doors and effectively ruin everything.

A whine escapes Patrick’s lips and he full on pouts as the DJ calls out over the mic: “Give it up for the happy couple! Mr. and Mrs. Brent Seabrook!” 

Jonathan chuckles, probably at a combination of the timing and the look on Patrick’s face, and presses their foreheads together. 

“Later,” he says, and Patrick knows it’s a promise…

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Reception activities begin as anticipated, and normally this would be a prime opportunity for Patrick to scope out the hot bridal party he was promised, but obviously that’s not happening anymore. Patrick can’t even fathom looking at another person with intent, his days of playing the field abruptly over, and though he would have laughed at himself for thinking this pre-soulmate, Patrick couldn’t be happier to see them go. 

He’s got Jonathan now, and this feeling, as new and scary as it may be, is better than any fleeting satisfaction a wedding hookup could ever provide. 

They make their way to the cake table—‘getting the cuttin’ over with so I can dive right in,’ Brent joked—and Jonathan stands behind Patrick as they watch, so close he feels Jonathan’s chest move with each breath. Jonathan clutches Patrick’s biceps, rubbing up and down soothingly like he can’t help but keep his hands on him, and Patrick swoons over his dorky giggle when Brent smears icing on Dayna’s cheek, earning Brent a squeal and a cake-covered nose in return. 

Patrick can feel Jonathan’s unbridled delight, a reflection of his own, and relaxes into the warmth at his back, letting Jonathan take some of his weight; Patrick’s head resting on his shoulder. 

“They’re cute,” Patrick says simply, watching them do the thing with the wine glasses, trying not to think about what he’d rather be doing—exploring his soulmate in as many ways possible. It’s his duty as Dayna’s Man of Honor to give the new marrieds the attention they deserve, but it’s torture, really. 

“ _You’re_ cute,” Jonathan replies, and Patrick can’t help but chuckle even as he feels his cheeks flush; Jonathan thinks he’s cute—the bond tells Patrick the sincerity is there—and his open admission is a good indicator that Jonathan’s having just as much trouble keeping his mind off Patrick and on the proceeding events, but also… 

“Just cute, huh? Lame,” Patrick teases, and he can feel the spike of competitiveness in Jonny, and the tinge of arousal that follows. Jonathan cranes his head down until his breath is hot against Patrick’s ear, and Patrick gasps when he boldly nips at the lobe with his teeth. 

“I’ll show you lame,” he whispers huskily, and Patrick thinks he might pass out, right here, right now. 

“Can’t wait,” Patrick says with a shiver, and all he can feel surrounding him is Jonathan’s satisfaction.

  

Jonathan reclaims his place at Patrick’s side when the marrieds come to take their seats at the table, and Brent flashes his best man a look of mock-betrayal. 

“I see you’ve defected, Jonathan,” he says formally, eyebrow arched in disdain like their friendship is over because of it, despite the smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yep, lost me for good, bud,” Jonathan tells him, draping an arm over Patrick’s chair and squeezing his shoulder. Normally Patrick wouldn’t consider that to be such a possessive move, especially since Jonathan did it so casually, but he can _feel_ that it was exactly that—possessive, claiming—and more. 

His unprovoked swell of protectiveness consumes Patrick though their bond and leaves him tingling all over, feeling strangely whole and safe, too; and the finality of Jonathan’s response—lost me for good, the ‘to Patrick’ left unspoken but implied in his touch… 

It’s a weighty thing, knowing with such certainty that they’re it for each other. They’ve got details to hammer out, sure—the how’s and where’s—but it doesn’t matter. The bond uncomplicates it all: 

He is Jonathan’s and Jonathan is his. Simple as that.

  

Next up on the reception agenda is a sappy slideshow of the happy couple, a compilation of childhood candids, engagement photos, and everything in between. The room goes dark and quiet as it projects on the back wall, aside from the occasional giggle, sniffle, and ‘aww’ here and there. 

Jonathan never moves his arm from around Patrick, and Patrick unsubtly scoots his chair as close as possible so he can lean into Jonathan’s side, every place where they’re touching like a blanket of warmth against him. He finds himself sneaking glances at Jonathan; the dim, flickering glow of the projector making him look extra soft and inviting. 

Patrick’s suddenly filled with visions of waking up to him in the morning, all sleepy and rumpled, the sunlight streaming in through the windows, dancing across his face in much the same way. The affection Patrick feels in that moment is suffocating, more than enough to get Jonathan’s attention, and he glances down, smiling bashfully under Patrick’s fond gaze as he gives his shoulder another tight squeeze.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Jonathan whispers, and Patrick finds himself wishing for a moment that bonds permitted the transfer of thoughts instead of just emotions. To always know what Jonathan’s feeling, but not the actual thoughts that inspire them—that could get tricky; Patrick doesn’t know if he’d enjoy someone totally in his head though. Maybe if it were selective… 

“Just wonderin’ what you’re like in the morning,” Patrick answers honestly—Jonathan would certainly detect if he were being anything other than truthful anyway, not that he was embarrassed to admit it—and Jonathan practically exudes adorable in response. 

“You’ll see tomorrow, eh?” he says, and Patrick’s shocked when he actually feels a little apprehension behind it. 

“Damn right I will, Jonny,” Patrick replies as confidently as he can; he doesn’t want Jonathan to have any doubts that he wants to spend tonight, and every single one after, together. Jonathan hears him loud and clear, confirming with a pleased grin and nod, and pulls Patrick into him, resting his cheek against Patrick’s curls as they look back to the show. 

When it’s over and the lights come back on, Jonathan reluctantly moves away and Patrick blinks a few times to let his eyes adjust to the brightness again. 

Dayna’s all sniffly next to him so he takes a second to tease her, of course. 

“How many times you planning on cryin’ today, huh?” 

“As many as I want, thank you very much!” she says with a smack to his shoulder, giving it back to him as good as she gets it, always. “You’ve got no room to talk anyway, you cry all the time!” Then she directs her attention to Jonathan behind him and continues all matter-of-fact, “He does, Jonny—he cries all the time.” 

“Oh yeah?” Jonathan asks, smirk stretching into an affectionate smile.

“No!—not _all_ the time, _Dayna_!” Patrick pouts, sticking his tongue out at her like the true adult he is. Jonathan’s resulting amusement is almost palpable. “Just sometimes…” 

“I’ve only known you for, what? Three hours? —and I’ve already seen it once, so,” Jonathan says, drawing out the ‘o’ like a goober, and Patrick is struck again by the fact that they’ve only known each other for basically two seconds, in the grand scheme of things, and yet their connection makes it feel like forever—like the lifetime they’ve got ahead of them.

“Oh, shut up, I was just—” Patrick quickly runs through a list of appropriate descriptors: beside myself, overjoyed, overcome with happiness, thrilled, blissed out, incredibly relieved; but settles for something a little more chill. “— _really_ happy to see you,” he mumbles, questioning when the hell he became so sentimental over relationships and not just sad animal and sports movies; probably around three hours ago, if he had to guess. 

Jonathan reaches up to brush his knuckles across Patrick’s cheekbone, surely feeling all those emotions again just as Patrick did, and bites his lip like he’s fighting the urge to lean in. Patrick _so_ wishes he’d give in to it. 

“Back at you, baby,” Jonathan says, and yeahhh, Patrick likes the sound of that.

  

Brent’s parents interrupt them then, with hugs for Jonathan and claps to the shoulder and all that. 

Patrick does an internal backflip when Jonathan introduces him to them as “my Patrick—he’s my, uh, soulmate,” explaining quickly that they bonded during the ceremony, which they’d noticed, of course. 

“Ahhh,” Brent’s mom remarks, surprised. “We were wondering what went on there—it was a wonderful moment to witness, as confused as we might’ve been. We’ll have to check with the photographer to see if she happened to get any photos, yeah?” 

“Oh, yes ma’am, that’d be—man, that’d be awesome if she did,” Patrick says, picturing a shot of them—Jonathan’s hand cupping his face, brushing his tears away as their bond solidified—framed on their mantle or something, hanging above their bed, sitting on Jonathan’s desk in his office… 

Mrs. Seabrook launches into some questions then—how’s and where’s related—that Patrick knows are well-meaning, but send his joyous mood spiraling downward all the same. 

“Jonathan, you just started teaching in Winnipeg this semester, yes?” she asks, then looks to Patrick. “And you’re in Buffalo? Dayna mentioned your job with the Sabres—that’s fantastic! What’re you boys planning to do with all those miles between you, now that you’re bonded?” 

Shit. 

Patrick stares at her like a deer in headlights, silently pitching the question to Jonathan, who clears his throat a couple times before actually speaking and even then, it’s not much. 

“Uhm—” he starts, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. Patrick can just feel Jonathan’s discomfort through his own growing panic, because, what _are_ they going to do? “We haven’t really…” 

“Oh my, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? You’ve only just found each other! Plenty of time to figure it out,” she recovers, giving Patrick’s forearm what he imagines is supposed to be a comforting squeeze. “Anyway, Jon, could you help me with something? We have a gift for the happy couple, and Gary can’t carry it alone.” 

“Absolutely, yeah,” he answers immediately, turning to Patrick when she seems satisfied that he’s going to follow after her. Patrick’s struggling to remember how to breathe, drowning in anxiety and longing for a solution—what are they going to _do_?—when Jonathan grabs his hand, thumb moving in soothing circles against his palm. 

“M’gonna...” Jonathan trails off, gesturing to Brent’s mom with a slight jerk of his head in her direction. “You okay?” 

He can surely feel that Patrick is not, but Patrick nods his head convincingly, makes himself smile brightly for him; like Mrs. Seabrook said, they just found each other—Patrick can’t be a drama queen about this straight out the gate, so he fibs a little. 

“Yeah, of course, I’m good. Go ahead. I’ll just—I’ll be at the bar.” 

Jonathan looks dubious, but nods and offers him a small smile in return, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, then he’s gone; and Patrick heads over to find some chill in the bottom of a glass. 

 

There’s none there, or more accurately, there’s none to be found that interests Patrick. He doesn’t want to get drunk, doesn’t need to. What he needs is Jonathan with him and answers to the questions plaguing his thoughts:

What are they going to do? 

Patrick thinks back to Dayna and Brent’s slideshow, the pictures of their first place together, and feels a pang of fear in his chest. 

Where will their first place be? When will they get to have it? 

Does Jonathan even want that just yet? Is it insane for Patrick to want it so soon? 

Patrick knows one thing for sure: he can’t ask Jonathan to give up his job, never wants their bond to be a source of resentment for him, something that takes from Jonathan instead of gives. 

Maybe Patrick could move to Winnipeg, he thinks; get a job with the Jets, as fucking cringe-worthy as that idea sounds. Being without Jonathan for any extended period of time, though—that would be worlds worse, without a doubt; just the thought of it has his pulse racing, heart beating uneasily in his chest, skin prickling hot…

No, _no_ , he can’t—they _can’t_. Patrick’s just found him; they’ve had no time.

They need more time. 

Patrick knocks back his drink and surveys the reception hall, hoping to spot Jonathan coming back, but he doesn’t see him, doesn’t feel him getting any closer, so he signals to the bartender for another. 

Jonathan’s just in another room, maybe outside, with only brick walls separating them, and Patrick can feel him, yes, but it’s milder, not as present in his body as it was before. 

Patrick aches for him already; can’t even imagine what it’ll be like with thirteen hundred miles between them instead of a few dozen yards, at most. They say, though, that as the physical relationship progresses, the bond strengthens, becomes more solid and easily felt over increased distances, depending on the intensity of it, which varies from couple to couple. 

He can’t be sure, but Patrick thinks— _feels_ —like theirs is real fucking deal; the way it was before, during the ceremony—it has to be, so maybe…maybe it’ll be okay. 

Patrick gasps, suddenly hit with Jonathan’s proximity again, like a jumpstart of his heart, and spins in his chair to Jonathan’s exact direction of approach. His eyes are dark, focused, and he’s all but running towards Patrick, a man on a mission. 

Seconds later, he’s there, muscling in between Patrick’s thighs, with both of Patrick’s cheeks squished in his hands, and he’s breathing out a deep sigh of relief that Patrick can hear and feel all over. 

“I fucking hated that so much, Patrick,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “Did you—I felt like I could barely—Jesus, c’mere.” 

Jonathan pulls Patrick into his chest, arms wrapped like vices around him, and Patrick sinks into it, clutching hard at Jonathan’s jacket. The relief is immediate and overwhelming, having him close again; but after a second, Patrick feels Jonny’s flash of embarrassment and he shuffles back, clearing his throat. 

“Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to be—” 

“Hey, nuh uh,” Patrick says, cutting him off and reeling him back in. Jonathan must have misinterpreted Patrick’s overwhelmed feeling as _him_ being overwhelming. Not even close. “I want you right here. Can’t you feel?” 

“So you didn’t like it either?” Jonny asks into Patrick’s curls, stroking them as he holds him. 

“No, hell no,” Patrick answers immediately. He thinks after they’ve gotten used to being bonded, settled into it more, so to speak, it won’t quite be this bad. The fresh comparison, though—having Jonathan close and then not, the stark difference in how Patrick could feel him—was a lot. Coupled with the Debbie Downer thoughts he was having about the decisions they’re going to have to make, it was more than enough to be upsetting. 

“It was uncomfortable, like—like my insides were searching for you, if that makes any sense,” he continues, unsure of the phrasing, but it is what it is. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I—yeah,” Jonathan laughs, and Patrick backs off a little to look up at him. 

“Hey, you want to, um—let’s, uh,” Patrick stutters, not wanting to full on say ‘go somewhere so I can put my mouth on you’ but that’s pretty much what he’s thinking, and he can sense that Jonathan’s down for whatever he’s suggesting, so he just hops off the stool and grabs Jonathan’s hand. “C’mon.” 

“You got it,” Jonathan says, and Patrick chuckles, thinking of how this is basically a role reversal of earlier, when Jonathan was impatiently dragging him to their seats after the ceremony. Patrick weaves through the crowd, and thank fuck no one tries to stop them, because he would hate to have to be rude, but Patrick’s mind is totally one-track right now.

He slings open a door that leads into an empty hallway, and he would take the time to search for something more secluded, but fuck it—this’ll do; Patrick’s waited long enough, thanks. 

He spins on Jonathan suddenly, grabbing him by the lapels of his suit and pushing him into the wall, and Jonathan groans, but feels completely interested by all accounts, so Patrick assumes it was a good groan. 

Patrick smiles up at him, hands roaming over Jonathan’s chest, in awe of how beautiful he is, how strong he feels under Patrick’s touch. The room around them is charged, heavy with the anticipation of what’s surely to come, but Patrick wants to savor this moment for everything it’s worth. So when Jonathan leans in, Patrick stops him, pressing him back where he was. 

“Wait,” he says, and Jonathan grumbles, something deep in his chest, and Patrick can feel the impatience; so not a good sound like before . 

“You’ve been beggin’ me to kiss you all day—what’s the hold up?” Jonathan huffs, fingers digging into Patrick’s hips, and Patrick has to bite his lip to keep from diving right in, because Jonathan’s absolutely right; he’s been gagging for it since they sat down in the reception hall, pretty much, but—

“I just, I want to remember everything,” Patrick tells him, sliding his hands up to push Jonathan’s jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor. If they’ve only got a couple days together before they have to go back to work for a bit, before they get everything sorted, Patrick wants to start committing Jonathan to his memory right this minute.

Jonathan’s breathing hard, but it’s slow, controlled, and Patrick mirrors that with his movements, running his hands deliberately along Jonathan’s shoulders and down his biceps, squeezing gently, feeling him; he’s all hard muscles and smooth lines, and even through the thin fabric of his shirt, Patrick’s hands tingle with the warmth emanating from him. 

He makes it to Jonathan’s hands, bringing one to his mouth and kissing each of his long fingers before lowering it again. When he looks back to Jonathan, his eyes are heated, so intense, and he can feel Jonathan’s struggling to keep still, urgency building within him, but Patrick isn’t done. 

He leans into him, reaching up to brush his fingers over Jonathan’s gorgeous face; the chiseled line of his jaw, the smoothness of his cheeks, the bridge of his nose and subtle ridge of his brows. He’s got three tiny, round scars—two on one side, one on the other—and another grazing his upper lip, and Patrick delicately touches them all. 

“What’re these from?” he breathes out, because Patrick wants to know everything about him, every detail that made him the way he is right now—perfect and Patrick’s. 

When Jonathan responds, his voice comes out rough, gravely and yearning, and Patrick can _feel_ it, feel how badly Jonathan wants him, and he hopes like hell Jonathan can feel that it’s thoroughly reciprocated. 

“Had some moles removed—the one on my lip is from a hockey stick, though,” he says, and Patrick nods, wondering what he looked like with them. Jonathan must feel his curiosity because he adds, “I’ll show you pictures,” and it makes Patrick smile grow wide, that Jonathan can read him this way already. 

Then Patrick gets on his tiptoes, mouth hovering near Jonathan’s, and when he murmurs, “Kiss me now, please,” that’s all it takes; Jonathan’s mouth is on his, and it’s everything—too much, not enough, and completely perfect all at once. 

Jonathan’s lips are soft, pliant and flawless against his, just the right amount of tongue and wetness working together effortlessly, and Patrick couldn’t have dreamed up anything better. They start slow, but even so, Patrick can feel it surging through him _everywhere_ , from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, a thrumming under his skin that pushes him for more and more. 

He wraps his arms around Jonathan’s neck, plastering their bodies together, and the swirl of emotions—intensifying want, need, arousal, love, lust, and the underlying newness of it all—it’s electrifying, dizzying; leaves them both gasping into each other’s mouths, scrambling to get closer, despite the impossibility of it. 

Patrick’s never felt anything similar to this intimacy in his life, and the bond—fuck, Patrick can feel it getting stronger, building steadily; so much so that Patrick can’t tell where he ends and Jonathan begins. They’re one as they move together, like he can predict Jonathan’s next move before he does it, and Patrick’s already loves it, and all they’re doing is kissing. 

When clothes come off and they’re skin to skin, Patrick might not survive it.

“Fuck, Patrick, _fuck_ ,” Jonathan gasps, breaking away from Patrick’s mouth to kiss along his jaw, exploring Patrick’s face just as Patrick did his, but with his mouth instead. “I’ve never—your mouth. Oh my God.” 

“Jonny, please,” Patrick begs, but he’s not sure what for—Jonathan’s all over him as it is, hands shoving Patrick’s jacket off to join his own on the floor, and when he wedges his thigh in between Patrick’s legs, Patrick’s suddenly and painfully aware of how hard he is, moaning much too loudly, a choked off, shuddered thing.

Jonathan’s there to shut him up with his mouth, kissing him hard, and then they’re back at it, finding that easy rhythm, tongues tangling and hips thrusting as things grow increasingly frantic with each motion. 

Patrick’s barreling quickly to his end, grinding his erection into Jonathan’s thigh, gasping as he feels Jonathan hard against his, pushing and shoving and grunting wildly. 

Patrick can’t believe this— _any_ of it. He’s here, with his soulmate, getting off in the hallway at Danya’s wedding reception. It boggles his fucking mind, but it’s everything, and he’s beyond giddy when he acknowledges, again, that he never has to give this up.

It’s that thought that pushes him over the edge, and when Patrick orgasms, coming straight into his suit pants like a fifteen year old, it’s whiteout moment. He’s all sensation, all heat and release and energy blooming from within, and it’s the single greatest, most overpowering thing he’s ever felt. That is, until he feels Jonathan come too, and their combined pleasure utterly rocks Patrick’s world, and he cries out, too consumed in everything Jonathan to give a single fuck about where they are or who could possibly hear them; someone could walk in and Patrick surely wouldn’t notice or care. 

They’re both panting hard, breathing ragged and labored, and Patrick half-collapses onto him as they come down, totally blissed out, more than comfortable and satisfied in each other’s arms. 

When he finds his voice again, Patrick can only say Jonathan’s name in every available form. 

“Jonny. Jonathan,” he breathes. “Jon, holy shit.” 

“Still deciding which one to use?” Jonathan asks, and Patrick can feel his amusement mixed into the thick cloud of emotion surrounding them. He’s trailing his fingertips over Patrick’s back, a tickle in the best possible way, and Patrick burrows into him. 

“Mhmm,” Patrick answers, then moves to place a kiss to the hollow of Jonathan’s throat. “That was—” 

“I didn’t know it could be that way, be that—” Jonathan pauses like he’s searching for the right word. “—fucking…powerful, I guess.” 

“It feels stronger to me now,” Patrick tells him, and he knows Jonathan will understand he means their bond, because it is—like it’s this tangible thing between them, whereas before it felt mostly internal, like two separate entities tethering them together; now it’s— 

“We’re…one,” Jonathan provides, and Patrick trembles hearing him say that, feeling the truth behind it. 

“We are,” he agrees, and Jonathan pulls Patrick back to look at him, hands skimming along his jaw before sinking his fingers into Patrick’s hair. 

“I love you,” he says, and Patrick feels tears welling in his eyes at Jonathan’s sincerity, the conviction in those three words. 

“Back at you, baby,” Patrick grins, repeating Jonathan’s line from earlier, and it earns him a smirk and a kiss.

It’s gentle, not one that’s to be taken to the next level like the last, but easy; sweet and warm and tender, and Patrick will never grow tired of all the places he can feel it, the subtle intensity in such a casual act. 

Jonathan’s chuckling against his mouth soon, and Patrick pulls away to see what the deal is, as much as it pains him. 

“Something funny?” he asks, and Jonathan just shakes his head in disbelief, like he’s just as stunned about the events that unfolded here and amused by it, too. 

“I can’t believe you made me come in my pants at Seabs’s fucking wedding,” Jonathan says, glancing down between them and squirming, and that gets Patrick laughing as well. 

“Hey, you never know, maybe I’ll get you back in here for round two one day, huh?” Patrick says, thinking of their own wedding, imagining the feeling of being bound to Jonathan legally in addition to the most permanent and important way they’re already joined. 

A look of confusion flashes across Jonathan’s face before he gets it, and then his cheeks go red, bashful smile in place—one that’s proving to be Patrick’s favorite. 

“Wherever you want, Patrick. You’re mine already,” he mumbles, and yeahhh— 

Patrick likes the sound of that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH, FINALLY FINISHED. WOOP WOOP. 
> 
> Sorry this took like a thousand years... One WIP down, like 4 to go. lol. 
> 
> Feedback welcome and soooo appreciated! 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr: [toewsme1988](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com)!


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